I hate when the weather starts to get better. It makes working night shifts incredibly unbearable. I feel like a dark little troll. I used to revel in the sun. I used to be out in it all day long, everyday. l;kfjgkldgjoieguwoiugb

Since I know everyone wants to hear about it, I’m going to write about my haircut. I’ve been looking a little too much like Megaman lately. Sporting a large unkept mass of thick black locks that blows majestically in the wind. Like just about everything else, Megaman can pull it off (and with incredibly sexy results too). I needed something a little cleaner for my upcoming presentations though.

I went to the Gentleman’s Barber. The woman who did it is my least favorite on staff but she did a passable job. I like the Italian guys (if there’s one thing Italian guys know, it’s hair). My favorite woman wasn’t there. Too bad. I go there because it’s obvious that they take pride in what they do, only doing men’s cuts and really taking their time to do a fine job. They warm up the shaving cream and shave your neck and around the ears with a metal razor too. That’s the best. So much better than the place on campus where they shave you down in about five minutes and hustle you out the door.

Blah.. I can’t believe I actually broadcasted that I was listening to Chesney Hawkes on my last post. I like the hook but the soft synth interludes are cheesey beyond belief. I think it’s on my best of 1992 list. Some people have comfort food, I have comfort music that I retreat into during times of high stress. I’ll listen to club tracks with wicked hooks and the best tracks of 1980-1997, as previously and painstakingly chosen by me. I’ve decided that 1998 was the year that pop music got really crummy. 1999 was the worst year ever.

I think my posts are probably going to be pretty lame for a while. Burn out city. I coded most of the day. Still, I’m feeling fairly decent. I took the bike out for the first time of 2005, worked out and despite having some amusing quirks, my protein structure prediction program has actually started to work.

Happy Easter. No bunny trail this year unfortunately. No Easter chocolate either. My apartment is looking a lot like I am. Disheveled. Messy. Toasted. Sunday afternoon detox. Wicked headache. Likely due to stress and copious amounts of sugar and caffeine. Maybe it’s just dehydration. I was flying last night though. I’ll be ok, there be a brimming giant coffee right hurr.

I worked a crazy shift last night. I got some odd requests from the residents.  My favorite was received from a drunk first floor buisnessman calling from a bar. It was a panicked request to enter his unit and move all the beer from freezer to fridge to prevent explosion. He’s a nice guy, I didn’t mind helping him out. It was Sleeman’s Clear if you’re curious, wouldn’t have been my choice. Anyway, the supervisor is away and I’m being an even worse employee than usual. I wasn’t even pretending to do my job. I locked myself in (and everyone else out of) the exercise room and watched boxing. I flagrantly listened to Luna at the front desk. I neglected to do other more boring stuff (this has the potential to land me in a lot more trouble). Some school work got accomplished though.

Upon awakening yesterday, I was angry at myself for deleting Ms. Pacman. It’s good that I seized that moment of clarity and personal conviction because I wanted to play bad. What else. I hurt my vocal chords yesterday singing Just a Friend by Biz Markie in the shower. I’m enjoying my near eastern mythology lectures. The cannonites aren’t all that bad. They’ve got some funky gods and goddesses. Fallible sexual pagan gods are where it’s at. Hepcat.

My Thursday presentation weighs heavy on my mind cause the program I’m presenting still isn’t working. It’s reflective of its creator, there are some nice extra features but it still doesn’t do what its supposed to.

My discipline is breaking down. A truth I’ve learned through many painful lessons is that I am utterly incapable of working at home. Home is home and the place of food, sleep, sex, video games and movies. Hmmm, that’s an interesting chronology that just flowed out of my impaired consciousness. I wonder if it means anything. I don’t think so, I rarely watch movies or play video games anymore. Deadline panic is providing the impairment. I am having difficulty preventing my perspective from widening out from the tunnel vision that I so desperately need to maintain right now.

My life is full of ghosts. Some of them interact in a seemingly indirect way and some of them are openly aggressive. However, they all want me to fail. Sue is the cunning one. She won’t confront me openly and but she gets into my head. Constantly forming and revising her long term strategy to confound my efforts at every turn. Devious, diabolical Sue. Too good for straight up chasing, the constant thorn in my side.

I die by Inky’s nasty hands often too. He’s got those wild eyes. Crazy bastard. You never know what Inky’s gonna do. That mental instability makes him unpredictable and dangerous. Inky’s always sinking those grimy green teeth into my supple yellow flesh.

The angry red ghost, Blinky is an idiot. In his mindless rage he is utterly predictable and easy to confuse. My elegant dancing is no match for simple Blinky.

Pinky’s a determined chaser too, but likewise can’t handle my smooth moves. She’s the delicate lady of the bunch, not a thug like Blinky or Inky. She will chase but doesn’t have the stomach for the kill, she just wants to get ahead of you and get in your way. It’s always Sue though, cerebral Sue. Always in my next section, always one step ahead, blocking that next energizer while Blinky and Pinky pressure from behind.

I’m deleting Ms. Pacman right now. What a mistake installing that was this morning. I had a nap this evening and all I dreamed about was grids, ghosts and kinky pacman sex. Nothing got done. I’ll chalk today up to post thesis decompression and start work early, early tomorrow. And I will delete my pixelated temptress after a few more games.

Your Homicidal Rampage! by crash_and_burn
Your name:
Weapon of Choice:	Cigarette lighter
Your Favorite Target:	Hospital workers
Your Kill Count:	1,067,985,234
Your Battle Cry:	“Moo!”
Years You Spend in Jail:	44
How Much Money In Damages You Cause:	$284,056,710,428,038
Your Homocidal Insanity Level:: 83%
Quiz created with MemeGen!

I envision more of a GGUUUURRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARARRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wow. I got some great comments on my last post. I thought a post on hockey would bore everyone to death. Thank you.

Question: What was the Billboard number one song of 1966?
Answer: Sgt Barry Sadler – Ballad Of The Green Beret

So today in an effort to calm myself while I frantically tried to weave a connecting thread through the disjoint sections of my thesis, I listened to the top 100 hits of 1966. I was surprised to find a really cheesy, patriotic, lame song at the top of this great musical year. What was in the number two spot?  Diana Ross – You Cant Hurry Love. A supremely superior song. I can’t help but wonder if racism was in play to keep a black woman out of number one. I envision an old prejudiced grump with some power to wield ordering someone at Billboard, “Bump her out of the top spot! Here, put this patriotic ballad in as number one, do it for your country son. What are you? A pinko?” (I have no clue if anyone actually talked like this in 1966)

Have a look at what else Sgt Barry beat out:
#8, The Beatles – We Can Work It Out.
#18, The Rolling Stones – Paint It Black.
#25, Nancy Sinatra – These Boots are Made for Walking.
#34, Percy Sledge – When A Man Loves a Woman.
#37, The Beach Boys – Good Vibrations.
#43,  Stevie Wonder – Uptight Everything’s Alright.

The injustice continues all the way down. That lousy Green Beret song is incredibly horrible and it was number one. Number one! I don’t even know why I am pretending to be shocked. Musical crap always seems to float to the top.

Fighting soldiers from the sky,
Fearless men who jump and die.
Men who mean just what they say,
The brave men of the Green Beret

Ok, nevermind. With brilliant ryhmes like, “from the sky”, “jump and die”, I’m surprised it wasn’t number one in 1967 too. All right, I need to move on, nobody likes sarcasm. I’ve probably deeply offended someone. I apologize. Go U.S.A.

Worked on the thesis all day for the last time, it’s not great but good enough I suppose. I’m handing it in tomorrow on time. This calls for a single banana.

Not more because now I’m entering a tough stretch of presentations and assignments. However, I’ve felled the giant and the end is near.

My undergraduate thesis is due in two days.

I played hockey growing up. In the small city I’m from hockey is huge. One block west of my childhood home exists two outdoor rinks. One and a half blocks to the east are another two rinks. In Thunder Bay, outdoor (and indoor) hockey rinks are everywhere, and they are always in use. Before coming to London and exploring a few other cities a little, it was my misconception that this was the norm for Canada. At the NHL level Thunder Bay is probably over represented. Currently, Steve Rucchin, Anaheim’s captain is probably the most recognizable player. There are quite a few other less renown players too.

With the exception of one year, I didn’t play at the elite level, I played tier-two. Still, I was pretty good. I was one of only a handful of kids who attended hockey camp during the summers and as a result I probably developed more skill. I was always one of the best skaters on my team. I enjoyed playing the most during my first few years as a center, lots of fun and freedom. It got less fun when a coach converted me into a defenseman. Defenseman rarely score. Playing defense slowly and surely soured my love for league play. I didn’t complain much though. My reward was three consecutive “Most Sportsman Like Player” awards. At the NHL level that trophy is named the Lady Bing. You can’t really brag about perennially winning the Lady Bing.

I was undersized. (My dad was a short kid who grew a huge amount during late high school to a respectable 5’11. I followed a similar pattern, only making it to 5’10 though. I blame it on my horrible high school eating patterns.) Anyway, small is not good for defensemen. Height isn’t critical in hockey like in basketball but it helps with leverage. The few times I attempted to stand someone up at the blue line, I would usually just get run over.

In grade eight my defense partner was a huge overdeveloped gorilla man-child. A huge kid. He must have been close to six feet and 250 pounds. A total monster. He was slow as molasses too, the worst skater in existence. I remember how hilarious it was when he moved to hit someone, his target would cower in fear as this giant mass of humanity approached, but he took so long to actually get there and had so little momentum the hit was always so weak and pathetic. The coach’s logic of pairing me with him was that I could skate and would be able to get back quickly to cover for his fat lumbering ass. His not so secret weapon was an absolutely booming shot. So whenever I took a point shot (admittedly not my strong point) everyone would get pissed and chastise me because they wanted the monster taking all the shots. That was it, I wasn’t having fun any more. I quit in grade nine.

So I didn’t play for a year. I still played outdoor pickup games for fun though. In grade eleven I was somehow coerced into becoming an organizer for unofficial, unauthorized games. I would collect ten to fifteen dollars from 10 to 20 kids and then would rent ice for an hour at one of the city arenas. Any profit was gladly given to me for this task and dealing with the rink rats. Those informal high school games were a lot of fun. I haven’t played at all since coming to university, just a few sporadic recreational skates. Maybe if I find myself in a somewhat stable position this fall, I’ll look into finding a beer league to join. And I’m not playing defense.

Look, my esthetician, Peter made it on to CBC.

2025 me here: I have no idea what the hell I was referring too.

I ate six consecutive donuts upon awaking this late afternoon. Why six? Well in Ontario there is a peculiar tax rule that specifies that if you buy donuts individually they are taxed at 15% but if you buy six, then they are tax free. Tim Hortons also gives you a deal for a half dozen. So yeah, I buy six. All sour cream glazed today. It’s late and I’m still not hungry. Ever since I devoured them the thought of eating absolutely anything is sickening. This is my new diet idea. The six donut breakfast.

So there I was, in my now messy apartment still in pajamas at 5pm. Bloated with an incredible amount of sugar and fat, feeling pretty low. I’ve been knocked around so much this week. It rained tonight. I enjoyed the thirty-five minute walk to work. Usually I listen to audio books while I march. I finished a lecture series on existentialism this way. Lately it has been near middle east mythology. Today though, I just put on random music to sift through my jumbled, dark, brooding thoughts. In addition to academia, here are five current reasons for unhappiness (1) I stay with Merle because she represents a safety net. I don’t know if I love her. She will make the rest of my life miserable if I stay with her. It has to end soon. (2) I hate how lazy I am. (3)  I miss old friends and my dead cat. (4)  I’m not happy with the way things are headed. Things would be my life. (5) I miss playing hockey. I wish I never quit.

I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned it before but most of my classes are graduate level that I’ve been let into with special permission. If my thesis and marks were better I’d consider pleading my case for a masters degree. Stress is mounting now though. Surprise obstacles are popping up, I’m getting my ass kicked in wonderfully unexpected ways. I’m a little piece of coal being crushed in Christopher Reeve’s hand. Sometimes I revel in the adversity. I feel that no matter what and how much shit gets thrown at me, I’ll find a way to deal with it. A mental swagger that continues to get me into trouble.

A favorite movie of mine at about age six was Beyond Thunderdome. As a result my grandpa bestowed the nickname, Mad Max upon me. Sometimes he would throw in “from the Thunderbum” and I would fly into a six year old rage. Also, my favorite wrestler was Jake the Snake. From that comes another familial nickname that has had more stick.

This post is just like my thesis. A mess of poorly explained, incomplete and unconnected thoughts.

No one remembers The Simpson’s, Season two? Bart the Daredevil? Truck-A-Saurus? Well, when Homer jumped Springfield Gorge on Bart’s skateboard, he did yell, “I’m going to make it!” but he didn’t have quite enough momentum, fell short and bounced down the rocky slope in a painfully hilarious scene. (And to top it off with a comedy cherry, as his ambulance sped away, it crashed into a tree, the gurney fell out the back and Homer went down the slope again.)

Well ever since I posted that Homer on the skateboard picture I have been dealt a string of demoralizing blows, most but not all, school related. I’m not even going to write about it. I’m just exhausted and fried and not feeling good about anything right now. Just about the only positive thing going for me is that I’m not sick like half the people constantly sharing my airspace. (Coming soon: my sick post)

The other night I couldn’t bare to start that cockadoodie databases assignment at midnight so I relaxed a little in pajamas and my bowl chair watching TV. Misery came on and it was good. I had two glasses of red wine while I watched Annie Wilkes torture poor Paul Sheldon.

I wore green today, it took minimal effort so I decided to cooperate with society. It was an olive green T-Shirt underneath a forest green sweater with spiffy brown corduroy cargo pants. A fine simulation of a pine tree.

I’m tired of whiny indie rock. No patience exists for it right now. So I’ve been binging on dance techno and caffeine. I like Red Bull better than the Sobe’s Adrenaline Rush. Sobe’s is a buck cheaper though so it’s a tough call when I buy. They both have 80mg of caffeine and need to stop getting drunk by me. The below album had a remix of my favorite 80s song, Toto – Africa. I think that was the highlight of my whole lousy week. It wasn’t even anything special.

2025 me here: No idea what the song remix referred to above was. Maybe best of bootie? Were they making those back in 2005?